


Non Sum Qualis Eram

by ornithomancy



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Guilt, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 11:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11805087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ornithomancy/pseuds/ornithomancy
Summary: He thinks for a moment that perhaps the Commander isn't infallible, that she's just as broken as the rest of them. The thought scares him as he's not sure that two broken people can put each other back together again.





	Non Sum Qualis Eram

Panic sinks its thorny tendrils into his heart as he watches the two doctors pour over the stasis suit. Bradford wishes he could do more to help, but all he can do now trust in their skills. He can't quite help himself and steps in closer when the mask is removed. He revels in how little she has changed, simultaneously in awe and horrified by the aliens’ technology. She is pale and gaunt, but alive.

 

He steps aside to give Tygan the space he needs to perform the surgery.

 

Before the doctor can so much as begin, the Commander’s eyes snap open and she shrieks, a horrific sound that makes Bradford’s heart stop. The voice of an Elder reverberates in the heads of the senior command staff, but he can’t understand what it's saying.

 

The voice stops, and in fact, _every_ voice stops in the room. The room is silent except for the oppressive hum of the heart monitor.

 

“No,” he gasps. “ _No!”_

 

Bradford jolts awake in a cold sweat, a silenced scream still on his tongue. He takes a moment to assess the situation – the time, where he is, _who_ he is – and slowly manages to calm down. The Commander is safe, he reminds himself, and anything otherwise was just a horrid dream. It’s only five in the morning but he knows he won’t get back to sleep. He briefly considers letting himself into the Commander’s quarters to check on her, but now that she was starting to wake more frequently he didn’t want to be the cause of any lost sleep.

 

Besides, the Commander would not be happy if she had to squash rumors about the two of them from the moment she woke up.

 

Instead, he goes to the bar and pours himself a shot, just to take the edge off of his nightmare. He can feel the Commander’s disappointment already, but he elects to ignore it for now.

 

He goes to the mess hall next to begin his day like a normal human being, with a cup of coffee and whatever constitutes breakfast. The hall is empty so he has his choice of where to sit, but he takes a seat in the corner so he can sulk in peace. To either his disappointment or relief – he isn’t quite sure which – Shen appears a few minutes later and joins him with her own breakfast in hand.

 

“You’re up early,” she says sitting across from him. She regards him for a moment, her look almost pitying. “I thought you were sure your nightmares would stop once we got the Commander back?”

 

He sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. This isn’t the sort of talk he enjoys at breakfast, but he knows that avoiding would just make Shen more worried. “I’m sure they will,” he assures. “Once she’s walking around like she used to do, they’ll go away.”

 

Shen looks at him like she doesn’t believe him, and honestly he doesn’t blame her. He barely believes himself.

 

They chat for a while, discussing anything from progress on the Avenger to some of the inane bullshit the crew had gotten themselves into recently. Slowly the mess hall fills up and Shen departs back for Engineering, leaving Bradford alone once more.

 

He sits alone for a while longer, but the soldiers’ whispering their doubts about the Commander wears on him quickly. A dark corner of his mind tells him the bar is empty at this hour, that he could have peace and quiet there, but he has a job to do and he won’t fail at it again. He makes a mug of tea and grabs something to eat, then heads up to the Commander’s quarters.

 

A few moments after he knocks the door opens to reveal the Commander, looking just as pale and gaunt as in his nightmare, but thankfully much more alive. The scream from his nightmare reverberates in his head, but he grits his teeth and reminds himself that she hadn’t even screamed when her head had been bashed in. She lets him in and he sets out his offerings on the table. “The tea is chamomile,” he says sheepishly. “Tygan says you should avoid caffeine, otherwise I would have brought you something stronger.”

 

“Thank you,” she says softly, taking a seat on one of the sofas. She picks up the mug and leans back, already looking tired even though the day has barely begun.

 

For a moment, he worries that perhaps their soldiers are right. Perhaps she isn’t the infallible being made of steel he’d accidentally made her out to be, and perhaps they could still lose even with her leadership. He pushes his fears out of his heart and instead focuses on how his sweater hangs off of her thin form. Whatever the aliens had done had kept her from aging, but she is still a shadow of her former self.

 

“You’re looking better today,” he says at last. “Think you can manage some time out on the bridge?”

 

He can practically hear Tygan in his head berating him about pushing the Commander before she’s ready, but he wants to stand at her side and see her in action again. He wants her to show their men the same fiery will that had endeared him to her all those years ago.

 

She’s quiet for a few moments, seemingly taking stock of her being. “I’ll see what I can do. Something tells me if I’m about, though, then Doctor Tygan will want to see me,” she muses softly.

 

“Still not over your fear of doctors?” he asks, an amused smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

 

“I’ve good reason to dislike doctors,” she replies matter-of-factly. “And I have more reason to dislike going to the labs.”

 

He raises an eyebrow, curious about what could be so much worse about XCOM’s own laboratory than a simple doctor’s visit. “If it’s any comfort, he likely just wants to talk about the Officer autopsy he’s been working on. He said he’d be done with it today,” he says.

 

She smiles softly at him, and any doubts about her wellbeing disappear for the moment. “It does help, just a bit,” she says. “As long as we don’t have to discuss my head or anything that used to be in it, I’ll be fine.”

 

“I’ll pass word of that to him.”

 

She shakes her head and immediately winces at the pain from moving. “It’ll likely just make him more worried about how I’m recovering,” she explains, rubbing the back of her head. She pauses for a moment, as if she’s ashamed of her next words. “I don’t feel quite right if I’m not focusing on a battle, but I suppose that’s what happens when you’re used as a computer for twenty years.”

 

The knowledge doesn’t sit well with him, but he can’t think of any other way to ease her mind. “I can’t promise that we’ll actually have much of anything to do today.”

 

“Still, even picking where to scan is better than being cooped up all day. Just being around people would make me more comfortable, even.”

 

He smiles faintly. “That much I’m sure we can do,” he assures softly. As much as he would like to continue to sit and chat with her, his communicator beeps, letting him know that he’s needed somewhere in the ship. He sighs and stands, but instead of heading directly to the door he approaches the Commander. “Let me know if you need anything,” he says, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

 

She looks as though she wants to say something, but the words never come. After a moment longer, he leaves, his heart in pain.

 

Nothing of interest happens while he’s working, but the Commander does eventually emerge from her quarters. She doesn’t look the imposing figure she once had been, but at the moment she doesn’t need to be. She quietly sits down besides Bradford, watching the information on the screens as it scrolls by.

 

Word spreads quickly throughout the Avenger, though, and soon enough Tygan asks for the Commander’s presence in the labs. She hesitates when the call comes in, clearly antsy about going down.

 

“I can accompany you, if you'd like,” he offers. There's nothing happening on the bridge and his crew can certainly handle being on their own. Even if they couldn’t, he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to be with the Commander.

 

“Please,” she says, standing. They depart the bridge together and descend into the bowels of the ship in silence. The moment they step into the labs he sees her tense and wrench her head to the side, as though the room is filled with a piercing noise that only she can hear.

 

He places a hand on her arm to assure her, then leads the way down to where Tygan awaits them.

 

“Central, Commander,” the doctor greets, nodding to each of them. Ever the professional, he doesn't need much prompting to discuss his findings from the ADVENT Officer.

 

The Commander keeps her gaze on Tygan, intense and unwavering, to the point of unnerving. Fortunately it doesn't seem to put off the doctor, or he is at least wise enough not to mention it. She only looks away when the screen shows a comparison of the two chips, and Bradford thinks he should have realized the real problem before. The chip that had been in her head sits on a table like a gruesome trophy, and the stasis suit is stacked in the corner for safekeeping. She doesn’t despise the XCOM laboratory for no reason, it just happens to hold all the reminders of her imprisonment. He makes a mental note to ask Tygan to move them elsewhere.

 

“The sequence here is essentially you, Commander, or at least the tactical information they were processing through your mind. As you can see, the data is nearly identical,” Tygan continues, gesturing to the screen.

 

The realization hits him like a sack of bricks. “They were using you against us,” he says, turning to look at her. He expects to see his anger reflected in her expression, but instead she is impassive, but drained of color.

 

She is _afraid,_ and that scares Bradford more than he’d like to admit.

 

He wants to reach out and comfort her, but they still hadn’t spoken about _them_ yet, and he doesn’t want to lose all semblance of professionality already.

 

The doctor continues with his findings, ultimately suggesting to hack a live officer. He doesn’t like the sound of it, but the Commander assures him that it will be done so he keeps his worries to himself.

 

“Thank you, Doctor. Begin research on the hybrid materials we’ve collected so far next,” she instructs. “If our soldiers are to get close enough to hack an officer, they’ll need some better protection.”

 

“I’ll get right on it, Commander,” he assures with a nod. He pauses for a moment, just long enough for the two commanding officer to turn and start leaving. “And Commander, I know you are eager to get back to work, but please, do not push yourself. You’ve just come out of a major surgery.”

 

They pause at the foot of the stairs at Tygan’s words. The Commander bows her head to conceal any weakness. “I will keep that in mind, Tygan, thank you,” she says once she’s composed herself. “I will be sure to let you know if my condition changes for the worse.”

 

“That is all I ask,” Tygan says. He turns to get back to work, and so do Bradford and the Commander.

 

They are quiet as they ascend out of the labs, though Bradford wants to ask her a thousand questions. He knows she’s using the brief time alone to put her mask back up after it had been fractured since she needs to appear as the backbone of the resistance to the crew.

 

She places a hand on his arm as they step back onto the bridge, drawing them to a stop where no one will overhear them. “Keep scanning the area for the abandoned colony,” she says. “We could use the new recruits. Otherwise you’re in charge.”

 

“Yes, sir,” he replies, holding back all his other thoughts. He watches in silence as she ascends the stairs back to her quarters, then turns back to the bridge to get to work.

 

* * *

 

 

ADVENT never takes the resistance’s transgressions lightly, and they’d done the worst of all by stealing the Commander back. Bradford knew that retaliation would come soon, but hadn’t expected to see a haven fall before him. Seeing the horrors play out on screen makes rage burn in his chest and tempts him into jumping onto the skyranger himself to fight, but he knows he’s of more use at the Commander’s side.

 

He turns and lifts a hand to call the Commander from Engineering, but to his surprise she’s already on the bridge, standing beside the geoglobe. She’s staring up at the screen where Den Mother had just been, arms crossed and brow furrowed as though she were lost in thought.

 

“Commander,” he calls, drawing her out of her thoughts. Her attention snaps to him and she nods before marching into the armory to assemble a team. He turns his attention back to the bridge crew, instructing them to get everything ready as well.

 

The mission goes surprisingly smooth, giving Bradford hope that the Commander is recovering better than anyone could have hoped. Her tactical genius was starting to shine through again, despite any pain she still feels. Not even a Faceless suddenly transforming besides one of their soldiers could throw her off.

 

She watches one of the screens closely, a feed from one of the soldier’s cameras, as they approach a civilian and send them back to the skyranger for safety. He sees her brow furrow again, like there is something just eluding her.

 

Bradford hopes it’s nothing, but something in his gut tells him that he’ll be fretting over it for days. Nevertheless, he leans forward to unmute his microphone. “That’s enough civilians to maintain contact in this region, at least. Finish off those ADVENT bastards and get out of there,” he tells their troops.

 

She waits until he’s muted himself again, then tilts her head slightly in his direction without taking her eyes off the screens. “Central, what’s the chance everyone in this haven has had a run in with ADVENT before?” she asks.

 

He glances at her from the corner of his eye, but her expression reveals nothing. “Pretty high, there used to be a few other camps in the area that were attacked, so I imagine most of the survivors fled here,” he replies. “Why?”

 

The Commander is silent for a moment, then reaches forward to turn her mic on. “Lera, move up to that tree, ten yards ahead and to your left. You should be close enough to put a shotgun shell through that officer’s head from there,” she orders. She waits for confirmation to come through, then mutes herself again. “I don’t know,” she admits softly, turning back to him. “I just… have a feeling.”

 

He wants to ask, but it’s neither the time nor the place to pester the Commander about _a feeling_. He makes a mental note to do so later, hoping that it doesn’t get lost after he has his nightly drinks.

 

* * *

 

 

Two nights after the attack on the haven, Bradford is woken not by his nightmares, nor by his alarm, but by his communicator beeping incessantly. He curses under his breath and reaches for the damned device. “ _What_.”

 

It’s Shen’s voice that comes through, though he doesn’t know why he’s surprised. She has as about a bad a sleep schedule as he does. “I figured you ought to know that the Commander is in the shooting range,” she says. In the background, he can hear a gunshot echo.

 

“Is that it?”

 

“You don’t think it’s weird that she’s in the shooting range at nearly one in the morning?”

 

He glances at his clock and sighs. “I’ll be down in a few minutes,” he assures.

 

Getting to the shooting range is more difficult than he realizes in the dark and still half drunk, but he manages to arrive without injuring himself. He stands in the entryway for a moment, watching the Commander shoot. She has the same look in her eye looking down a scope as she does when observing a battlefield – her focus sharp enough to split a hair.

 

He waits for her to shoot, then knocks on the door to announce himself. “Most people don’t practice their aim in the dead of night,” he says.

 

“I didn’t realize it was so late,” she says nonchalantly. She doesn’t turn from looking down range. “It’s been twenty years, I’m rusty.”

 

He crosses over to stand beside her and glances at the target. A couple holes were scattered around, but the majority of the shots had been clustered around the centers of the body and head. “That hardly looks rusty to me.”

 

She shrugs, and turns her attention to the rifle.

 

“What’s this really about?” he asks. He reaches out and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling them together. “Last time you were "practicing your aim," the council was stressing you out. Is it about the retaliation?”

 

She’s quiet for a few moments, and Bradford hopes that he’s just imaging the feeling of her quivering. “Yes,” she admits at last. “Now that I’m not passing out due to exhaustion or pain medication, I’ve been having nightmares.”

 

He had noticed that her recovery seemed to plateau in the past few days, but he had hoped it just meant she was at the top of her game again.

 

“Most of them are fragments of battles from those simulations ADVENT had me doing. Clashes between them and protesters in their cities, raids on havens not unlike what happened a few days ago. Except I’m not entirely sure they were simulations now,” she continues. Her gaze is still on the sniper rifle she’d been using, as though too ashamed of what he might think of her. “There were times before, just after I’d woken up, where I’d see one of our soldiers and think they seemed familiar. I had just assumed that perhaps I’d seen them before while I was flitting in and out of consciousness, but when we were rescuing those civilians, whenever I could see one up close – I felt like I knew them from somewhere even though that couldn’t be possible. Speaking with them afterwards I found they’re all survivors from previous ADVENT attacks.”

 

It takes him a moment to process it all. He hates to think it, but perhaps she is right. Any single battle could take an infinite number of turns so it made no sense to prepare for every possible outcome and potentially kill her from overloading her brain. It would be more efficient to calculate everything live, like how they worked. ADVENT certainly had the means to control how many battles they were doing at once.

 

“Perhaps they just filled in civilian data for their simulations,” he offers quietly. It’s a weak suggestion, but it’s better than the alternative. The only way they’d find out for certain was to ask an Elder, and they were sure to never get an answer from them.

 

The Commander shakes her head and takes a moment to breathe deeply, though he can tell it doesn’t help much. “Simulation or not, I’m still responsible for the deaths of all their loved ones,” she says like it’s a death sentence. “I was the one giving orders, telling ADVENT who to shoot. I’ve got the blood of millions on my hands.”

 

“That’s not true and you know it,” he retorts, sounding a bit too much like he was on the bridge giving orders and not trying to comfort his commander. “You’re not to blame for anything that’s happened.”

 

“If I’d been a bit stronger, I could have sabotaged ADVENT from the inside, maybe I could have kept the world from coming to _this_. Better yet – if I were better at dealing with the council, if I hadn’t told them to go fuck themselves – we could have fended the aliens off in the first place.” She releases the rifle from her grip and covers her face.

 

With only Bradford there to witness her, she allows her mask to fall. The resistance needs her to be unbreakable and made of steel, so she makes sure she appears that way in public, but even the strongest can fail when they’re crushed between the weight of the future and twenty years of guilt.

 

Bradford only wishes he knew of a way to put her at ease.

 

“There’s no telling that anything you or I could have done would have changed things. The council had it out for us, whether or not you appeased them, and the aliens would have just done worse to you if they thought you were sabotaging them. You aren’t to blame for anything that’s happened, you’re a victim in this mess, too, just as much as anyone else on this ship,” he says gently. He pulls her in for a proper hug, pressing her tight against his chest. It won’t help with the weight of the world on her shoulders, but hopefully it can make her guilt a bit easier to bear. “You’re a victim, too.”

 

They stand there for a few minutes in silence. Ever so slowly, he thinks he feels her relaxing.

 

“It doesn’t feel like it,” she says at last.

 

“It doesn’t have to right now.”

 

More silence. After a minute, her shoulders drop, and Bradford feels himself relax as well. “Can you deal with communications with resistance havens? I don’t know if I can stomach talking with ghosts.”

 

“Of course.”

 

They stand like that for a few minutes longer, simply enjoying the presence of one another. A knock from the doorway causes them to spring apart in an attempt to keep their professional façade up. Shen stands in the doorway, pretending to look the other way. “I was about to go to bed, and I’d like to make sure everything is locked up,” she says, turning to look at them.

 

“I was just finishing up myself,” the Commander replies quickly, flashing a smile at her Chief Engineer. She turns her attention back to the rifle, quickly tending to it and the mess of the shooting range.

 

While she cleaned, Bradford wanders over to Shen. “Thanks for letting me know,” he says lowly.

 

She flashes a knowing grin at him. “I figured you’d be able to talk some sense into her. She’s been looking tired lately, I’ve noticed. She’s good at hiding it, but I think Tygan’s caught on as well.”

 

“I might not be able to drag her to a doctor, but I can do anything else to help.”

 

Shen opens her mouth as if to say something more, but before she can the Commander appears beside them, rifle slung over her back. “Hope you feel better,” she says instead, giving her superior officer a warm smile.

 

The Commander returns it with one of her own, thought it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I do, thank you. Just a warning, though, if I catch you staying up half the night working again, I will lock whatever project it is you’re working on in my quarters until you’ve gotten enough rest,” she scolds.

 

Shen laughs a bit, not in the least bit threatened. “Yes, sir.”

 

They say their good nights and depart from Engineering. Bradford has the urge to slip into the bar for a quick drink while the Commander is putting the rifle away, but he resists, knowing that she’d be disappointed with him. They instead walk to their quarters in silence, and he can see the Commander’s mask already being pieced back together as she closes her door.

 

* * *

 

 

“Commander, Central,” Tygan greets, sitting down to join them for dinner. It had been nearly three weeks since Bradford had comforted the Commander in the shooting range, and in that time her health had only seemed to deteriorate. Tygan, of course, had noticed. He flicks his gaze over her form, taking in the bags under her eyes and her poor posture, as well as the barely picked at food in front of her.

 

She flashes a smile at the doctor and straightens her posture, but it doesn’t dissuade him.

 

“Are you feeling alright, Commander?” he asks, raising an eyebrow,

 

“I’m fine, Tygan, thank you.”

 

Her tone had not invited any more conversation, but it doesn't stop the doctor. “Major surgery, especially major _brain_ surgery takes a while to recover from when performed by an expert - which I am not. You seemed to be recovering exceptionally well at first, and you were so eager to work, I was reluctant to be the one to hold you back, but now I rather regret not stepping in before –“

 

“Doctor, if you keep pressing me like this, I will not hesitate to find you work elsewhere. When I say I’m fine, _I’m fine_. I’ve not had a headache in nearly a month, and the scar has not hurt in even longer. As far as I’m concerned, I have recovered from the surgery, and if I am tired now it is because I have to turn a band of ill-trained soldiers into a proper resistance force against the most advanced enemies I have ever faced. I, understandably, am very stressed, and you pestering me about my health does not make me feel any better,” she snaps. “Are we clear?”

 

Tygan is taken aback by the sudden change in the Commander’s tone, but he nods his head respectfully. “Yes, sir,” he agrees.

 

Bradford covers a grin by taking a drink of coffee.

 

“Good.” The Commander lets silence hang between them all for a moment to take a pointed bite of toast, as though to prove she really were fine. “How is the new recruit fitting in?” she asks calmly. “I was a bit worried she’d be shaken after being extracted mid firefight.”

 

“Doctor Perez hasn’t mentioned anything to me, I’ve got her working with Doctor Sidorov for the time being.”

 

“I’ve got a question,” Shen says, sliding into the open seat beside Tygan. “You were trained to be a sniper?”

 

The Commander sighs, but it’s not the usual exasperated one. It’s almost amused. “A long time ago, yes. You saw me practicing my aim a few weeks ago and you’re only questioning that now?”

 

“We were working on those new magnetic weapons and some of my engineers got curious about your weapon of choice. I didn’t know if you were just using a rifle just because or if you were actually a sniper beforehand,” Shen explains casually.

 

“I thought it was rather obvious, given that the Commander carries her pistol with her everywhere, and that is the sidearm of choice for our sharpshooters,” Tygan comments, nodding at her hip where her gun is holstered.

 

“ _Everyone_ carried a pistol on them the first time around, including non-combat staff. We didn’t have the luxury of a base that could move around, so we had to be ready for anything,” Bradford interjects. “Not that it did us any good.”

 

Everyone’s smiles fall at that. Nevertheless, Shen turns her attention back to the Commander. “So, why continue to carry a pistol around?”

 

Bradford sees a hint of fear flash behind her eyes, but she hides it well. “I use it to scare rookies when they’re getting too rowdy, or to keep overreaching subordinates in line,” she replies matter-of-factly. A small smirk pulls at the corners of her mouth. “Never know when it might come in handy.”

 

“I don’t know if you’re actually being serious or not,” Shen says after a moment.

 

Despite her efforts, the Commander cannot keep a straight face and quickly breaks out into a grin. “I wouldn’t point a gun at anything I wasn’t prepared to kill, I carry it out of habit,” she assures, laughing. “None of our men have given me reason to want to shoot them yet.”

 

“If anyone _does_ get to that point, tell me _before_ pointing a gun at them,” Bradford interjects quickly before either Shen or Tygan could comment.

 

All three of them laugh at that, and fortunately the conversation takes a more normal turn. If the world hadn’t been ending outside, Bradford would have loved to stay and talk the night away, but he’d volunteered to take the early shift, so he excuses himself once he’s done. He intends on going directly to bed, but he stops by the bar first to make sure his nightmares won’t bother him too much.

 

When he wakes in the morning he already hates himself for volunteering. Something in the back of his mind that sounds oddly like the Commander mentions how a proper leader and leading by example but he's too tired to care. No matter the reason, it doesn’t make his hangover any easier to bear.

 

The bridge is quiet when he steps onto it, as expected given that there should only be the two crew members from the overnight shift still awake. Usually they are eager to get to bed as soon as they’re relieved of duty, which makes the smell of coffee permeating the bridge rather curious.

 

He follows his nose to the source, and to his surprise the Commander is curled up on a chair with a mug in hand, feet on the console, and tablet balanced on her knees. He regards her for a moment, confused.

 

“I thought you said you’d only drink coffee if the other option was death?” he asks once his mouth has caught up to his mind. “And shouldn’t you be sleeping, regardless?”

 

She nudges a second mug of coffee on the console with her foot. “I knew you’d be on duty soon, so I got you some, too,” she replies casually.

 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Regardless, he drags a chair over and picks up the offered mug. He glances at the reading on the screen, but it’s a quiet morning just like any other. “But thank you.”

 

She is quiet for a few moments longer, continuing to read the article she was on, but once she’s done she sets the tablet aside. “I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. Not that difficult to figure out.” She takes a sip from her mug, nose wrinkling as she did.

 

“Nightmares still?”

 

She shakes her head, then stops and hums for a moment in contemplation. “I still have nightmares, yes, but that’s not why I’m up now,” she explains.

 

He racks his brain for any other possible reason that would prevent the Commander from getting the rest she so desperately needs. If Tygan or Shen had caught her up at this hour, they’d have surely spiked her drink.

 

“Sleep paralysis?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you said that hasn’t scared you since you were a teen?”

 

She sighs and sips at her coffee again. “If it were the normal hallucinations, it wouldn’t be an issue.”

 

“Want to share?” he asks. He spins around in his chair to check the bridge. The two from the overnight shift had been relieved, but there were still only three other people on the bridge with them, so he turns back to her. “No one here will spread rumors.”

 

She adjusts her grip on her mug, taking the time to consider her words. “Instead of shadow people at the foot of my bed, it was a thin man standing over me, device in hand like it was about to insert that damned chip back into my head. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, I could barely breathe – it felt just like what I remembered,” she admits quietly. “I thought the Avenger had been attacked overnight, and I panicked a bit.”

 

Unsure of what to say, he lets the silence stretch between them. They had barely spoken about what she remembered – if anything – from her captivity, and honestly just thinking about it makes him sick. He knew that nightmares were a problem, and he had seen how she tensed around reminders of her captivity, but unless they were alone she never let her mask fall so it was easy to forget how much she was suffering, too. He wishes he could offer ideas to help, but the only way he’d dealt with his own issues in the last twenty years was to drink.

 

“Maybe now is the time to start sleeping on your side,” he suggests at last. “Even if you have sleep paralysis again, it won’t feel exactly the same.”

 

She groans, but there is a smile on her face. “I’ll still never be able to fall asleep on my side, I don’t know how you can do it. It’s so uncomfortable,” she says. She finishes her coffee, then sits up straight and puts the mug on the desk. “I’m sure they’ll go back to normal with time.”

 

“And if they don’t? I don’t want you blaming yourself for a mission gone wrong because you didn’t get enough rest. Not to mention, Tygan and Shen will be on your ass for not taking care of yourself.”

 

“And you won’t be?”

 

He muffles a laugh with his own coffee. “I’ll always be on your ass about you not taking care of yourself.”

 

She laughs as well, and for a little bit everything seems right with the world.

 

 

He finds her later in the living quarters, talking with Corporal Horák rapidly in a language he doesn’t recognize. She looks so happy, so unlike how she’d looked that morning that he was loath to interrupt, but Shen had wanted to put the new weapons on display.

 

She catches sight of him in a lull in their conversation and politely excuses herself. The moment that no one else in the room can see her face, she lets exhaustion creep back into her expression.

 

“Shen’s got the mag weapons ready?” she asks as he leads them down towards the shooting range.

 

He nods. “I’ve already told Sergeants Pagano and Song to head down to test them out.”

 

Shen is already watching the two soldiers fire the weapons by the time they arrive. She looks as though she’s still worried one of the guns might explode, while Song looks unconvinced and Pagano looks ready to run into a hoard of ADVENT soldiers on her own.

 

“How are the tests going?” the Commander asks once both soldiers are done shooting.

 

“Nothing’s exploded yet, so I’d say it’s going pretty well,” Shen says. “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about any accidents on the field, if you choose to push these out now.”

 

The Commander nods, then turns her attention to the soldiers. “What do you think? Lera?”

 

“I think those ADVENT bastards don’t stand a chance in hell,” Pagano says, setting the shard gun down. That earns a chuckle from the Commander.

 

“Sergeant Song, do you have any more useful input?” Bradford asks.

 

“I think the recoil will be a shock to some of the soldiers, and if they’re not careful they could just as easily injure themselves from it. If nothing can be done about it, then we should do some training to help with arm strength sooner rather than later,” he replies.

 

The Commander turns to Shen, eyebrow raised. “Is there anything more that can be done about the recoil?”

 

The Chief Engineer thinks for a moment, then smiles. “I can think of one option, but there’s a chance it might interfere with the propulsion system.”

 

“Try it out, and if it doesn’t work then go ahead and start manufacturing these as they are,” she orders. She turns her attention back to the soldiers. “You two, get started in leading some extra strength training exercises. Especially focus on any specialists, I want to get these weapons into their hands, first.”

 

“Yes, sir,” the two say in unison. They salute, then dart out the door, already discussing training plans.

 

Shen goes over and collects the weapons, making sure they’re unloaded before holstering them. She pauses for a moment, then offers the mag pistol to them. “We’d be happy to upgrade your weapons, too, if you want. Even your monstrosity of an assault rifle, Central,” she offers, smirking.

 

“It’s not a monstrosity, and I’m very happy with how it is now,” he retorts quickly.

 

"Sure it isn't."

 

The Commander considers the offered pistol, then takes it and steps forwards into the range. She lines up her shot and waits for the other two to put their earplugs back in, then unloads into the target. She thinks for a moment and considers the fresh cluster of holes in the middle of the target, then hands the pistol back to Shen. “I’m happy with my current pistol, thank you. I know for sure that it’s reliable, and it already packs enough power for my needs,” she declares.

 

Shen reholsters the pistol and nods. Content with her new orders, she says her goodbyes and disappears back out into Engineering. Bradford, however, is worried at the implication of the Commander’s words.

 

“Your needs?” he asks once the door closes behind Shen. “I still don’t quite see why you insist on keeping your pistol on you at all times. We both know there’s no traitors on this ship, and in the unlikely case that we get shot down, you shouldn’t be anywhere near the front lines.” His words make her tense, but he wants answers.

 

“I’d rather we didn’t discuss this here,” she says, turning towards the door.

 

“Don’t expect me to just let this go.”

 

She pauses and smiles softly at him. “I know you won’t.”

 

* * *

 

 

For all its success, raiding the ADVENT Blacksite had been a horrid mission. The sight of all those bodies had made everyone sick, but Bradford worried most for the Commander. Since learning about the guilt she felt for all the years not under her control, he had been afraid of how she’d react to any further news of the alien’s horror.

 

He tries to speak with her after the mission, but she quickly disappears into her quarters to debrief with the Spokesman while Firebrand returned with the team. Feeling more than a bit lost, he helps the crew clean the bridge up, then sneaks down to the bar for a few drinks before everyone else can filter in. He manages to down a couple drinks when the team returns, and he doesn’t blame the uninjured ones for heading directly into the bar.

 

Still, he takes it as his sign to leave before he has to pretend to be social.

 

To his surprise, his room isn’t empty when he opens the door. The Commander sits in his chair, wearing one of his sweaters, cleaning her pistol.

 

“Feeling alright?” he asks tentatively, sitting down across from her.

 

She doesn’t look up from her gun. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

 

He takes a moment to take a good look at her. She’s almost done cleaning her gun, so he figures she broke in just after she finished speaking with the Spokesman. Her eyes also seem a bit red, as though she’d been crying and her hands are trembling as she works. Suddenly he feels guilty for spending so long at the bar.

 

“It’s still not your fault for what happened to those people,” he says at last.

 

The Commander is quiet for a few minutes while she finishes cleaning her gun. Once she was content, she reloads it and sets it on the table again. “The guilt has been eating away at me,” she admits softly. “Sometimes I don’t know why our soldiers trust me at all to lead them. I’m the one that _lost_ us the war in the first place.”

 

“The soldiers trust you because you’ve already proven to them that you’re a genius strategist that can get them out of a losing battle with no injuries. Not to mention, you’re friendly and sociable enough to endear them all to you,” he replies. “And if you’re going to blame yourself for losing the war to begin with, you should place some of the blame on me as well. Or blame the council for all the crap they pulled on us.”

 

“It wasn’t your job to –“

 

“It was my job to look after you, and I failed that. So yes, it is at least partially my fault,” he interjects. He pauses for a moment, then adds, “You’re a victim, too.”

 

Silence stretches between them for a few moments.

 

“I know,” she says at last. Without another word, she stands and gets a glass of water from the sink and places it on the table in front of him. She then takes the seat beside him, their shoulders just brushing. “I’d like you to be a bit more sober before I go on.”

 

He does as he’s told and drinks half the glass in one go. “Is this about the pistol?” he asks, eyeing it on the table. “I tried to find your old one in the base – your grandfather’s pistol, I think you said – but it looked like all your things had been taken or destroyed, so I know you don't carry it for sentimental reasons.”

 

She smiles at the sentiment, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s my safety net, should the worst case scenario happen,” she explains after a moment.

 

Bradford feels his gut twist, and suddenly he sees why she didn’t want him drunk. He thinks he knows the answer, but he feels the need to confirm. “And worst case scenario is…?”

 

“Inevitable recapture. I’m not going to let myself fall back into the Elders’ grasp, and as long as they can’t use my mind again, you and the rest of the resistance can take them out. That I am sure of. You can stop the Avatar project and stop anyone else from disappearing into the clinics,” she explains, keeping her gaze fixed on the pistol. “Don’t tell Tygan, please. He already worries enough for my health.”

 

The thought of losing her again feels like a burning knife being thrust into his chest. “It’s not going to come to that,” he assures.

 

“You don’t know that for sure.”

 

“I’m not going to let it come to that,” he repeats. “Everyone on this damn ship is willing to die for the resistance, and the resistance needs you alive.”

 

She looks up at him again, looking more exhausted than usual. Briefly, he wonders if he even knows of all the things bothering her. “Every good strategist needs to prepare for the worst, no matter how unlikely it is to happen. I certainly hope I’ll never need to use it, but I feel better with it at my side,” she explains.

 

He nods weakly. He doesn’t like the idea in the least, but he can understand where the sentiment is coming from. “I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’ll never need to use it.”

 

She smiles, then drops her gaze once more. His stomach twists again. “That does lead me to something I’ve been meaning to ask for a while,” she continues. “Should this worst case scenario happen, there is a chance I might not be able to pull the trigger myself. I don’t want to put that burden on you, or on anyone, but – shit – if I asked anyone else they’d be dragging me down to Tygan before I could even finish explaining. And you’ve seen what they’ve done to me, how badly off I am now. I can’t go through that again.”

 

Bradford is silent for a few long minutes. The idea of needing to be the one to kill the Commander after spending twenty long years looking for her makes him sick, but he knows deep in his heart she has a point. The aliens’ psionics were more powerful than ever, and if they could get into her mind before she could draw her gun then someone else would have to step in. If there were truly no better option, then he knows death would be preferable to eternal imprisonment.

 

“You have my word,” he says at last, letting his own gaze drop to the gun. “But I swear, it will never come to that.”

 

She loops an arm around his shoulders and pulls him against her chest. Neither of them are okay, but in the safety of their rooms they don’t have to pretend to be.

 

For the first time in a long while, Bradford feels safe as he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

A little over a week later Bradford finds himself sitting at the bar, like usual. The images from the ADVENT Blacksite still haven't left his mind, and he wishes that the bar had a greater selection.

 

Someone slides into the seat beside him, which isn’t unusual even despite the late hour, so he ignores them. He starts to care when they grab his beer, so he lifts his head off the counter to curse them out, but freezes at the sight of the Commander.

 

He watches in astonishment as she takes a sip of his beer, scowl, then set the bottle back down beside him. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up to what he saw, and even longer for him to form some amount of coherent words.

 

“Still a beer snob, I see,” he says at last, grinning.

 

“Somehow the resistance has managed to find something even worse than what the council stocked us with,” she replies casually. “I suppose with the end of the world comes the end of anyone with good taste.”

 

“If you can stop lording yourself over everyone’s tastes, you should join us all for drinks sometime. Be more… sociable.”

 

She looks down at the counter and shakes her head. “As much as I would like to drink, I should be alert at all times. I wouldn’t want to get a soldier killed because I was still drunk or hungover while trying to run a mission.”

 

He squints at her, as though she’d been replaced by a clone. “If only the council could hear you now,” he teases. He picks up his beer and takes a drink.

 

Her smile falls slightly at the mention of the council. “I also don’t want to drink because I want to support you should you choose to stop drinking,” she continues. “I know it’s hard, but I’m here for you.”

 

“I’m _fine_ –“

 

“No, you’re not fine. You’re going to kill yourself at this rate just to – what? – stop some nightmares? Those aren’t going to get any easier to bear if you keep drinking yourself to sleep. And what if we need to fly somewhere, or lead a mission, or _something_ and you’re here getting drunk? I’ve seen you slip away when work is light, don’t try to deny that you come here,” she snaps.

 

He laced his fingers around his head and tried not to entirely break apart. “I’m not that strong, I’m not as strong as you are. I spent twenty years on my own, I needed something for comfort, and with everything we’ve seen so far I’m going to continue to need it,” he explains weakly.

 

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you’re trying to kill yourself.”

 

The words sting, but he can’t find it in him to argue with her.

 

“I know you’ve been through hell since XCOM fell, and I’m sorry. But I’m not that strong, either. I fear going to sleep every night because I don’t know if I’ll wake up to an attack, or a nightmare, or another episode of sleep paralysis. Sometimes I want to just make a break for it and escape into the woods, but I know I have a duty to everyone on this ship and everyone suffering out in the world. It hurts every day, but I get up and do my work - but I can’t do it alone. I don’t know what I’d do without my Central Officer, and it hurts to see you destroy yourself.”

 

He can feel her gaze burning into his shoulder as her words cut into his heart. He’s silent for a few minutes, but slowly he lifts his head and looks at his nearly empty beer. He picks it up and drains it under the Commander’s disappointed gaze, then tosses it into a nearby bin.

 

“No more,” he promises quietly. “I’ll talk to Tygan in the morning to see if there’s anything I can do about withdrawal symptoms.”

 

He hears a sigh of relief from her and that’s all the incentive he needs to keep his word. “Come on, let’s get you in bed,” she says, practically hauling him from his seat on her own.

 

* * *

 

 

The following few days are hell for Bradford, but with Tygan helping to guide him and both the Commander and Shen looking out for him, he thinks he’ll manage. Still when he hears a crashing sound and the Commander yelling “ _Fuck off!_ ” from her quarters he thinks he’s having another hallucination.

 

He pauses in front of her door and listens. The Spokesman hadn’t called, and even if he had he was one of the few council members that she could stand. If there had been anyone meeting with her in her quarters, they surely would have run out by now in fear.

 

He hears another crashing sound, so he knocks. He had wanted to spend some time with her anyway, if only to quell his own fears about relapsing.

 

The door opens a few moments after he knocks to reveal the Commander, looking more tired than usual. “Yes?” she asks, trying to be casual despite slightly labored breathing.

 

“Is someone bothering you?” he asks, trying to look deeper into her room. She keeps the door only open a fraction, though.

 

“You probably wouldn’t believe me if I said no.”

 

“So, are you going to let me in to talk?”

 

She considers him for a moment, then glances back into her room. “Grab some tea for me? Chamomile, if we’ve any,” she says. She shuts the door before he can respond.

 

He returns a few minutes later with two mugs in hand. When he knocks this time, the Commander throws the door open like normal. The sofas and coffee table look like they’ve been hastily rearranged, and he figures that was the source of the crashing noises from earlier. He sets one of the mugs on the table and makes himself comfortable. She sits down beside him after a moment, but instead of grabbing the other mug, she lifts the one still in his hands to her nose and sniffs. Seemingly content, she gives it back to him and picks the other one up.

 

“Who were you telling to fuck off?” he asks once she’s comfortable.

 

“No one.”

 

He levels her with a flat gaze. “Really, tell me.”

 

“If there were anyone else in my quarters, they would have run away directly into you. I was quite literally telling no one to fuck off,” she explains quickly.

 

“So you were just telling the world to fuck off?”

 

She hesitates and takes a sip of tea. “Not quite.”

 

He tilts his head as if to say ‘ _go on._ ’

 

“Sometimes – when it’s quiet and no one’s around – I can hear whispering. Alien whispering. The Elders, in fact. They keep telling me things, that I should turn myself back over to them – that I can do so much more than lead an insignificant rebellion – that I could live forever among them. It’s usually quiet enough that I can ignore – unless I’m in the labs – but I had another sleep paralysis episode the other night, and with my nightmares I’ve barely slept in the past four days – and the whispering has gotten louder,” she explains, keeping her gaze cast low. “It’s driving me mad.”

 

Bradford is silent for a few moments, a hundred fears sinking their thorns into his heart again. "How long has this been going on?" he asks at last.

 

"Since I woke up."

 

The knowledge doesn't sit well with him. “Have you told Tygan?” This is surely enough to overcome her fears.

 

She shakes her head. “Not specifically. I did ask if it were possible for there to still be some latent psionic connection still, and he seemed to think it was possible, given how long I was under. But there’s not even a fragment of the chip left in my head, so it can’t be more than just echoes. Which is true, they only ever repeat the same phrases over and over again, and the moment someone else is around or there’s enough background noise – it’s gone. Besides, being near the chip and stasis suit makes it stronger, so I try to avoid being in the labs as much as possible.”

 

Hearing that puts him a bit at ease, but he still feels sick at the notion that the aliens could still be in her head. “What about the nightmares?” he asks. “If you can sleep more consistently, then the whispering will be easier to ignore, yes?”

 

“I still haven’t figured out how to keep those at bay,” she admits quietly. Her gaze flicks over him. “And from the looks of you, you’re still dealing with yours, too.”

 

He nods, ashamed. Silence falls between them while he thinks, the two of them drinking their tea. Drinking was off the table for both of them. They’d never find enough sleeping pills to keep them going, and even if they did he had a feeling she would refuse to take them in case they needed to deploy a team in the middle of the night. Staying up to the point of exhaustion just made the whispering worse, so that wasn’t an option, either.

 

“What if we just sat here and talked until we passed out?” he offers at last. “You said it goes away when someone is around, yes? And it might help with both of our nightmares.” He knew for a fact it would help with his, since the one night they’d spent in his room had been the best sleep he’d had in a while.

 

She considers the offer for a moment, humming into the rim of her mug. “What was the stupidest thing you did as a child?” she asks casually, a small smirk forming on her lips.

 

 

When he awoke in the morning, he is briefly confused about why he was waking up to an alarm and not by his mind hours too early. He groans and forces his eyes open, but instead of his own ceiling, he’s staring at the coffee table in the Commander’s quarters. She is slightly faster in waking up than he is, already pushing herself up to turn the alarm off.

 

“Sleep well?” he asks, shoving himself up into a sitting position.

 

“Surprisingly, given how uncomfortable those sofas are. You?”

 

He rolls his shoulders and hisses at the pain. “Better than I have in a while.”

 

“Good thing the council isn’t around anymore to fire us,” she muses, smiling. “But you should sneak back to your room before half the bridge crew sees us. I don’t need them gossiping instead of working.”

 

“You say that as though they haven’t been gossiping about us forever.”

 

She grabs the nearest thing, which fortunately is a pillow off of her bed, and chucks it at his head. “I don’t need them gossiping _more_. Happy? Also try not to be so obvious when you come back tonight,” she adds.

 

He tosses the pillow down into the sofa as he stands, wincing in pain as his back straightens out. “Please don’t make me sleep on the sofa again,” he says, smiling.

 

“I didn’t make you sleep there, but I will if you start pestering me about sleeping on my back.”

 

He laughs and thinks that perhaps there is still hope for broken people.

 

* * *

 

 

He awakes early one morning after landing in Chile to find himself alone in bed. He listens for a moment, but there is no sound of footsteps around the room, nor of running water. Reluctantly, he shoves himself out of bed, immediately regretting it as the cold air envelopes him. The one bad thing about being aboard the Avenger was that they were at the whim of the climate outside, and they could go from being in the desert one day to the freezing snow the next.

 

He grabs his coat and boots and braces himself to actually walk around in the cold winter’s morning.

 

He eventually finds her in the armory, staring up at the sky through the open flight deck. He wouldn’t think it terribly strange, but she’s not even wearing a coat to protect from the chill. He approaches her and stands just beside her, looking at the lightening sky as well as though it held undecipherable secrets.

 

“Something about the cold always made me feel more alive,” she explains after a few minutes. “The chill permeates you to your core and you’re forced to feel every little thing, whether you want to or not.”

 

“Is it worth getting hypothermia just to feel a bit more alive?”

 

She’s quiet for a moment, letting her gaze fall to the ground, ashamed. “I haven’t felt alive since I came out of stasis,” she admits.

 

It pains Bradford’s heart to hear that. He wants to argue with her, to mention all the successful missions, the advances they’ve made, their nights spent together, but she looks so solemn that he can’t find it in himself. “You should have mentioned something beforehand,” he says at last. He glances behind them to ensure that no one else is braving the chill, then steps in close enough to grab the Commander’s hand.

 

“What could I say? ‘ _Is being here really any different than being in stasis?’_ That wouldn’t go over well with anyone.”

 

He looks over at her, but her gaze is still on the ground. “Is this another thing that the Elders have been whispering in your ear?” he asks, anger once again starting to burn under his skin. “Being on the Avenger is nothing like being in stasis. You’ve got the entire crew looking out for you, I know Pagano and Horák would die for you, Shen and Tygan both want to help you however they can, and you’ve got me.”

 

She squeezes his hand to comfort him, but she’s the one that needs it more at the moment. “It has been brought up in the whispering before, but there is always a grain of truth to what they say. You’re right, I do have everyone looking out for me, and I appreciate that. But the only reason they do so is because the resistance needs my mind to fight off ADVENT.”

 

“That’s not true. If our soldiers didn’t like you for being _you_ then they wouldn’t be so excited when you sit with them at meals and get to know them. You sit down and talk with all of the crew at some point and make yourself human and relatable. No one here is only following you because of your mind. Maybe they do when they first come aboard the ship, but you endear yourself to the crew quickly.”

 

She sighs and drags her gaze up once more. “Maybe so. But my role here is still much the same as it was with the aliens. When it comes to work, not much has changed. I’ve just traded a tank for a renovated spaceship, a stasis suit for a uniform, and a psionic chip for a collection of cameras and microphones. If it weren’t for your voice in my ear during missions, I might think I was in another simulation,” she says softly. She leans against him ever so slightly, and he can feel how icy cold she is.

 

As much as he hates to admit it, he can see the grains of truth in what is surely the Elders’ words. He wants to believe that they’re better than the aliens, but perhaps in some ways they’re not. “I’m sorry,” he says after a few moments.

 

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault,” she says. She finally turns her head to look at him, and she looks exhausted. “My fate was sealed the moment I agreed to lead XCOM.”

 

“If you think it’ll help, I’m sure we can find a way to ensure your safety off the Avenger. Maybe spending some time in the havens, talking with more people will help. Just – something to get you outside a bit more and not feel so trapped,” he suggests softly. Shen and Tygan would surely argue with him about his change of heart, but the Commander’s mental health was just as important as her physical safety.

 

“That would be nice,” she says after considering the offer. “You can only wander around the Avenger so much before you start going mad.”

 

They stand together in silence for a few minutes, and eventually he feels the Commander start to shiver. Without a word, he takes his coat off and offers it to her. She hesitates, but puts it on and immediately grasps his hand once more.

 

“If you knew this would happen,” he begins tentatively, “would you still have taken the job?”

 

She hums, thinking. “I would, I think. I couldn’t condemn another to what I’ve suffered, to what we’ve all suffered through. And despite all the horrid things that have happened, some good has come out of it,” she answers. She looks at him, smiling. “Would you have taken it?”

 

“Certainly.”

 

They keep watching the sky brighten for a bit longer, but soon enough life is returning to the Avenger as the crew finally has no choice but to face the cold. He is loath to give up the momentary peace they’d found, but he knew the faster they defeated ADVENT then the sooner they could get back to actual peace.

 

He knows deep in his heart that as broken as she is, the Commander is made of steel just as everyone thinks, even if she doesn’t quite believe it herself. She has gone through hell and come out shattered and marred, but she is only stronger for it. He thinks that perhaps there is a bit of steel in him, too.

 

They are both broken, but then again most things on the Avenger are. With enough time, they can put anything back together, including each other.

 

The Commander leads them back to the bridge, hand in hand still.

**Author's Note:**

> Non Sum Qualis Eram - I am not such as I was
> 
> This is unnecessarily long and I'm not entirely sure it gets the idea that I want across but I've rewritten this three times and at this point I'm a bit sick of looking at it so I hope at least someone enjoyed.


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